Poem: The sound of a carotid

A couple of years ago I had a…. No that’s boring. Hell, I’m 67, I am in the zone, no more or less than that, so far. I have had the odd brush, the odd procedure, I take the meds…

The sound of a carotid
November, 2103

I can hear the blood
pulsing in my neck,
pretty much by the second
and into that thumping silence
I’m inclined to insert
the songs
the Stuart court loved.

The carotid – I forget which side –
it’s 75 percent clogged –
or some quite precise number –
but it’s still loud and clear
and faithful, so far,
even after those years of cheese and wine
and the lard I miss
made an errant clot.

The ears trump it,
with Dowland on MP3
compressed to about the same degree.

Through foam-wrapped buds
another man’s chords
make a sound as clear
as a boy or girl or sprite
from bytes on melted sand.